


tighter than before, no regrets

by soulofme



Category: TharnType the Series (TV)
Genre: Casual Sex, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23532754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulofme/pseuds/soulofme
Summary: “You don’t own me, Kirigun.”“Yeah, but,” Tharn begins, faltering, shaking his head. “Icould. If you let me. I could.”
Relationships: Tharn Thara Kirigun/Type Thiwat Phawattakun
Comments: 9
Kudos: 316





	tighter than before, no regrets

Frustratingly enough, Type’s a good liar.

He’s got a long history of telling little half-truths, the kind of thing people don’t look too closely at. Not unless they’re nosy. Fortunately, most people aren’t. Most days, Type pretends that he’s okay, and it tends to work out for him.

That’s why he can pretend all of this shit doesn't bother him. That somehow, he's okay with being fucked and it not meaning a goddamn thing. That he doesn't touch himself to the thought of Tharn making him his, _really_ making him his.

“You’re fucked,” Tharn tells him, his eyes dark and piercing.

Type stretches out languidly, shoving the heel of his foot into Tharn’s thigh before a warning hand clamps down around his ankle. They're pleasantly buzzed. Not enough that it'll be a problem, which means Tharn will probably still fuck him.

“I know.” He doesn’t entirely believe it. But Tharn doesn’t pick up on it. If he does, he won’t say a goddamn word.

That’s who he is.

Still, Tharn looks at him critically, silently judging him as if he has the right to. His lips are pursed, his drink cradled in his free hand. He rolls his eyes, clicking his tongue as he leans back against the busted couch.

“You’re _fucked_ ,” he repeats emphatically, as if he thinks Type’s misunderstanding.

“I _know_ ,” Type echoes. He edges his heel forward, brushing over the crotch of Tharn’s jeans. He’s half-hard, stiff beneath Type's foot.

Type grinds his heel down. Tharn’s grip tightens around his ankle, but he doesn’t let go.

“No fucking way,” Techno drawls, already loose-limbed and draped over the table, hands outstretched in Type’s direction. “Type Phawattakun in the flesh. I thought you were dead, man.”

Type hardly refrains from rolling his eyes. Techno is dramatic some days and annoying most. But he’s the only friend Type has in this shitty town. Not counting Tharn, because there’s something complicated there that Type doesn’t want to unpack.

Type settles across from Techno, grabbing the half-empty beer bottle and chugging it back. Techno whoops, far too loud for the hole-in-the-wall restaurant they’re in. The old lady behind the counter looks over in concern, but Type ignores her and polishes off his stolen drink.

Techno has his head propped up on his fist, raising an eyebrow that somehow manages to look judgmental.

“Where the hell were you?”

“Nowhere,” Type answers automatically. Techno sits upright.

“Nowhere,” he drawls, narrowing his eyes in suspicious. “You were, you _know_ , weren’t you?”

“You can say it,” Type says, breaking his chopsticks apart. The sushi is warm in his mouth. Gross. At least it tastes good.

Techno shrugs then, smacking his lips obnoxiously as he eats another piece of popcorn chicken.

“You were fucking that Kirigun kid?”

Somehow, the delivery makes him choke. Techno doesn’t look even a little apologetic.

“So?”

“ _So_ ,” Techno begins, leaning forward. “You blew me off for a dick appointment. Again.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Type snaps, hoping the poor lady behind the counter can’t hear them.

“Doesn’t change the facts, _Type_.” Techno rolls his eyes. “Why are you so damn _horny_ , bro?”

“None of your goddamn business,” Type says, which is dumb. He tells Techno his business all the _time_.

It takes a while to get Techno off of the whole Tharn subject. By the time he puts it to rest, he’s wasted. Type slings his arm around his shoulders and leads him out of the restaurant, grunting when Techno’s head lolls down onto his shoulder. His head is awfully heavy for someone who acts brainless half the time.

Type laughs at his own joke. Techno groans against his neck.

“Shut up,” he says, voice low.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Don’t piss me off.”

It’s childish. Type feels like he’s been transported back to high school, when he and Techno would fuck around more than they would do their homework. Life had been easier then. It makes him sound old as hell, but it’s true. College is a whole other experience. Especially since Techno decided to move to the other side of the country. He’s on break now, and it’s the first time Type’s seen him in person for a year. They’d video chatted up until now, but it hadn’t been the same.

Type stops at a crosswalk, adjusting his grip on Techno. Techno sighs deeply, his breath ruffling the ends of Type’s hair.

“Don’t let him fuck you,” he murmurs. “Not, like, in the literal sense. Meant fuck you over.”

Type looks down at him in shock. Techno looks strangely sober, his eyes big and sincere.

“Okay, No,” Type says. It’s the only thing he _can_ say.

Tharn invites him over for drinks. The sex isn’t implied anywhere, but Type still squeezes himself into a pair of jeans so tight that they dig into his hips. Tharn doesn’t say anything about it, but he slips his hand into Type’s back pocket as he brushes past him.

The wine Tharn brings out is one Type’s had before, a cheap one that’s not too bitter. He pretends it’s something insanely expensive as he drinks it out of a chipped coffee mug. They don’t talk. There’s a documentary on, but Type can’t even explain what it’s about.

“I’m kinda pissed.” It’s Tharn who breaks the silence.

“Yeah?” Type says, turning to look at him. “What’s up, dude?”

Tharn shrugs. “Band.”

“You break up?”

“Huh? No. We’re just stressed.”

“Shit. Sorry, man.”

Tharn shrugs again. They finish the wine and Tharn flicks the television off. He doesn’t say anything, not verbally, but Type can see the question on his face. He peels his shirt off and climbs into the empty space of Tharn’s lap.

Tharn wiggles a hand down the back of Type’s pants, patting his ass playfully.

“This for me?” he asks with a dirty smirk. Type rolls his eyes.

“Shut up,” he says, punctuating it with a filthy grind of their hips.

Tharn snickers. But he shuts up.

The next time they see each other, it’s Champ’s birthday. He’s a friend of Techno’s somehow. Techno knows everyone. He’d begged Type to come and he did, because he’s never said no to Techno.

It’s simple to pick out Techno. He’s grinding back against this guy that’s pretty, far prettier than anyone has a right to be. Type makes a mental note to grill Techno about it later.

“Type!” Techno cheers when he sees him, wriggling out of the guy’s hands. Type flashes him an apologetic smile. “You came!”

“I said I would.”

“I don’t know, lately you’ve been _busy_.” He places a heavy emphasis on the last word, one that has Type’s ears burning.

“Shut _up_ , No.”

Techno smiles, self-satisfied as always. Type doesn’t want to deal with his shit for another second, so he turns on his heel and pushes through the crowd looking for Champ.

Finding Champ is easy enough. He’s doing a keg stand while Oam and Team egg him on, screaming like mad when he lasts a whole minute and a half.

“Yo, Type!” Champ’s eyes are bright when he runs over to pick Type up and spin him around.

“Put me down, dumbass,” Type snaps, even though he’s laughing. Champ sets him back on his feet, which is when Type swears he spots Tharn in the crowd. “Happy birthday, man.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Champ says, smiling. “Hey. Thanks for coming.”

He glances over Type’s shoulder then, holding out his hand for a handshake.

“Tharn, bro!” Champ’s eyes kind of look watery as he pounds his fist to Tharn's. He’s not going to cry, is he?

“Hey,” Tharn says coolly, easily sliding beside Type. “Happy birthday.”

He’s close enough that their arms brush together. It shouldn’t make Type’s insides feel like molten lava, but Tharn tends to have that effect on everyone.

Especially Type.

Tharn and Champ launch into a conversation about _something_ , but Type’s not listening. Especially not when Tharn puts one big hand on the small of his back, squeezing the flesh beneath his palm.

It’s a signal. Type excuses himself with a forced smile. Picking his way through the house, he begins his search. His stomach’s starting to twist in anticipation, and he can feel his blood running hot through his veins. He manages to find an empty room soon enough, and willfully ignores that it’s Champ’s. Tharn seems to realize that when he finally comes in after Type, his jaw slack.

“Still wanna fuck me?” Type asks, pretending to pick disinterestedly at his nails.

“You let him touch you.”

“He’s a friend,” Type says dismissively. “Don’t get jealous, Kirigun.”

Tharn scrubs a hand down the side of his face, considering. Type leans back on his hands, but not before he spreads his legs and rucks the hem of his shirt up, exposing the flat, toned skin of his stomach.

Tharn’s eyes feel like a brand where they zero in on his bare skin. Type shows off for him, leans back all the way and pushes his shirt up to his armpits, plays with the button of his jeans.

“You think you deserve it?” Tharn asks, which makes Type let out a harsh laugh.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, mostly because it’s not like Tharn to play games. But also, maybe, because there’s something brewing inside of him. Something that likes the idea, the idea of being good for Tharn, good enough to take whatever is given to him.

Tharn surges forward and kisses him, hard, with teeth and tongue. Type’s head spins from the lack of oxygen, but Tharn doesn’t give up, not even when Type begins gasping against his mouth. His free hand works Type’s shirt off, yanking at it so much that Type hears the seams rip.

He stops suddenly, half over Type, his body slotted in the empty space between Type’s spread thighs.

“What?” Type growls into his mouth, which spurs Tharn into motion.

They fuck like the music’s loud enough to drown them out. They fuck like it’s not Champ’s bed Type’s getting his brains screwed out on, like they’re not dead meat once he figures it out. But Champ can’t figure it out. Because whatever the hell they are is a secret of sorts. And Type feels that somehow, if people were to know, Tharn would stop. Stop seeing him. Stop fucking him.

And he can’t have _that_ , now can he?

“Talk to me,” Tharn says against his ear, desperate, hips jerking forward, pushing himself deeper inside of Type.

“You want me to talk to you?” Type says, laughing low and cruel. “Want me to tell you how good you feel? How big you are inside me? How bad I want you keep fuckin’ me?”

Tharn snarls, one big hand curling into the hair at the nape of Type’s neck. His other hand pushes his thigh out, spreading his legs even farther apart. He fucks in hard enough that their hips smack together, grinding in when he’s balls-deep.

Type looks at the hand digging bruises into his thigh, traces those fat veins up the length of Tharn’s arm. He sinks his nails into Tharn’s arm, which punches this wounded sound out of him that has Type leaking against his belly.

“Fuck me,” he hisses.

Tharn’s hand leaves his hair, reaching down to grab his other leg. Type growls when Tharn thrusts harder into him, deep enough that he swears he feels him in his throat. He gets sloppy after a dozen more thrusts.

“You close?” he hisses through his gritted teeth, frantically stroking a hand over himself. The other he keeps clamped around Tharn’s arm, feeling the muscles flex as he drags Type’s body into his own.

Tharn’s eyes are wild and dark, his mouth open and panting. Type leans up to kiss him, pulling away to let out a frustrated moan. He wants to fucking come. _Now_.

His body seems to pick up on that. He arches his back, thighs shaking from where they’re bracketing Tharn’s waist. Tharn watches him in shock, eyes all big, and it takes him another five thrusts before he’s jerking inside of Type, coming hot and thick inside him.

“Hurry up,” he urges Tharn, who tosses him his pants and boxers.

He shimmies himself into them, checking over Champ’s sheets for any suspicious stains. They’re safe.

He doesn’t say anything when he brushes past Tharn, chest still heaving. He rakes a hand through his sweaty hair and feels the heat in his cheeks when he makes eye contact with someone in the hall just as he opens the door.

But somewhere beneath it all, he feels proud. Tharn’s come starts dribbling out of him, rolling down the insides of his thighs, and he bites his lip at the feeling, rubbing his thighs together. There’s pressure against his back, and then Tharn has him trapped in the stairwell, looming over him even though he’s hardly taller than Type.

“What?” Type slurs out, sex-drunk, and Tharn’s jaw goes tense.

“No one else,” he says, and it dawns on Type that he’s still stuck on Champ.

“You think I’m fucking him?”

“No,” Tharn says, almost bashful. “Just…don’t want you to. With anyone else.”

“You don’t own me, Kirigun.”

“Yeah, but,” Tharn begins, faltering, shaking his head. “I _could_. If you let me. I could.”

He sounds so earnest, like he’s about to get on his knees and beg for Type. He wouldn’t be against it, really, but now’s not the time.

“We’ll talk about it,” he says, not sure if he really means it or not. Tharn brightens up at it, though, and Type decides that's good enough for now.

He tells Techno about it, who obviously gets all bug-eyed, flailing his arms wildly about.

“So it’s not just a dick appointment,” he screeches, basically jumping in his seat. “It’s, like, a _thing_.”

“A thing,” Type sneers, rolling his eyes. “That you need to shut the fuck up about.”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Techno bites back, drinking his soda with a grin. “I didn’t think you had the balls for a relationship, Type.”

Type opens his mouth to tell Techno that they’re not in a relationship, but decides there’s no point. Techno will create his own narrative and run with it.

Later, Tharn ends up at his apartment. It’s a change of scenery. They usually fuck at Tharn’s. But they’re not fucking now. They’re sitting at Type’s tiny table. Tharn’s got his hands folded in front of him like he’s about to be interviewed.

“I meant it,” Tharn says then. “What I said. I want to try.”

“Try what?”

Tharn purses his lips. “Something besides fucking.”

“Thought you liked fucking.”

“Never said I didn’t,” Tharn corrects him. “Just. Want to give you more.”

“How do you know I want more?”

“Because you let me in,” Tharn says, nodding to himself. “Because I’m sitting here and you’re not telling me to shut up.”

“Shut up.” There’s no bite to it. Tharn smiles.

“You’re not saying no.”

“I’m not saying yes, either.”

“That’s okay. We’ll work on it.”

He sounds hopeful. Type’s an asshole, but he’s not fucking _heartless_.

“Whatever.”

It’s a yes, which he knows Tharn realizes. He gets this sappy look on his face that makes Type’s stomach swoop. He pushes away from the table, throwing a dark look over his shoulder.

“We’re still gonna fuck, right?”

Tharn stands up so quickly his chair falls backwards. Type grabs him by the hand and drags him off. It’s filthy and rough and so, so satisfying, but somehow, Type feels soft. Soft when Tharn presses fleeting kisses to his temple, when he whispers in Type’s ear, telling him how good he looks, he good he _is_ , how happy he is that Type said yes.

He comes with a strangled groan, and that’s when Tharn’s hips begin to slow, still deep, his cock dragging against Type’s walls. He grabs Type’s hand and presses it to his chest, right over his heart, and his next thrust punches the air out of Type’s lungs.

Tharn cleans them up after, with a warm washcloth and hands that shouldn’t feel so gentle. Type burrows under the blankets and feels the hesitant hand Tharn wraps around the dip of his waist.

“It’s fine,” he says, and then Tharn is pressed up against him.

It’s strange, being like this in a non-sexual way. But Type almost likes it more. _Almost_. Tharn’s hand migrates to his stomach, pressing down in the subtly possessive way he tends to act.

And if Type lays his hand over Tharn’s, it’s no one’s business but his own.


End file.
